


Like Fire

by Hay_Bails



Series: Sol [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crossdressing, Crossdressing Sherlock, F/M, Feels, I think it's gay..., Is this gay?, John is a Saint, Johnlock Fluff, Johnlock?, M/M, Other, Sherlock Being Sherlock, The Author Regrets Nothing, This could be gay, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-12 22:00:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1202116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hay_Bails/pseuds/Hay_Bails
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes likes to dress as a woman sometimes. It helps stave off the boredom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

            The door opened, and closed. Sherlock took in a sharp breath. That wasn’t supposed to happen.

            John wasn’t meant to be home for another six hours. He had a full day of work ahead of him. Sherlock had checked.

            “Sherlock!” John’s voice rang through the flat. “Mate, have you seen my ID? I must have forgot it this morning,” he called.

            Sherlock’s eyes darted around the small bathroom space that he currently occupied. John’s ID sat face-up on the countertop next to him. He cursed inwardly.

            “Are you in the bathroom? Sherlock?” John’s voice was just outside the tiny room now. Too late to make a quick dash for the bedroom. Sherlock’s heart sank. He was going to be caught, going to be found out-

            John’s knuckles rapped at the closed door. “Mate? I’m sorry to bother you, but I _really_ need my ID. I think I must have left it while getting ready for work,” he said. “I’m going to be late.”

            Sherlock sighed, and took a breath, steeling himself for what was to come. “Yes, John. It’s here,” he said, picking it up.

            “Do you- d’you think you can pass it out to me?” 

            Sherlock caught eyes with himself in the mirror. “Yes,” he said softly.

            Bracing himself, Sherlock opened the door the tiniest crack. He slowly extended his hand through the opening, proffering the card to John. John accepted it gratefully.

            “Thanks, Sherlock. I’d best be-“ he stopped short. “Um.”

            There was something wrong with the hand that had just offered him his ID.

            “Sherlock, your hand…” he said, unsure of how to express his thought.

            “Yes?” Sherlock said irritably, withdrawing his hand and pulling the door another inch closer to himself, shielding himself from John’s view.

            “It’s, um,” John said.

            “What is it, John?” Sherlock asked. He glanced at his hand and groaned inwardly, registering the problem for the first time. 

            John took a breath. “Sherlock, why do you have a manicure?”

            Sherlock closed his eyes. “You… really don’t want to be asking that.”

            “Why?” There was no malice in his voice, only curiosity.

            “It’s… you’ll be upset with me,” Sherlock replied.

            “Why would I be upset with you?” John’s voice was laced with confusion. “Is this some experiment, or something?”

            “No! No, nothing like that… just… go to work, John.”

            “Sherlock…” John pleaded.

            Sherlock did not open the door. However, he did not fully close it.

            “Should I… should I be worried? Are you… using again? Is this something to do with drugs?”

            “What? No, John!” Anger.

            John sighed. “Can I just… can I come in, Sherlock? I just want to make sure you’re all right,” he said. “You’re not acting yourself.”

            Sherlock huffed for a moment. “Fine,” he relented.

            “I… wait, what?”

            “Fine, I said! Come in if you have to,” he said with just a tinge of malice.

            “Oh… all right, then,” John said, and pushed the door open.

            Sherlock stood slightly hunched before him, a picture against the stark white countertop. He had dressed in an ankle length black dress, a frilly one with lots of lace. His lips and eyelashes were done up in makeup, and was he wearing… yes, he was wearing earrings. A pair of low black heels lay by his feet, ready to be donned, and a fiery red wig sat on a mannequin head on the counter beside him.

            “You don’t like it,” Sherlock said, not looking at John.

            “No, no,” his flatmate said, still staring at him with wide eyes. “No, you look… nice. It’s… nice,” he said lamely.

            Sherlock once again locked eyes with himself in the mirror, judging harshly. John had caught him halfway between personas, and he wasn’t sure how to act. He hadn’t put his wig on yet, but most everything was in place – the dress, the nails, the makeup. The wig sat on the counter, as if mocking him.

            He sighed.

            “No, really, I think it’s…” John scratched his head as he tried to think of a better descriptor. “Nice,” he finished once more.

            Sherlock pulled one side of his mouth up into something that wasn’t a grin.

            “Look, I really do have to get to work,” John said. “But we’ll talk this over when I get home, I promise. I’m not upset,” he said, sensing Sherlock’s unease. “I’m more surprised than anything else, really.” He patted Sherlock on the shoulder, extremely awkwardly.

            “It’s fine, John,” Sherlock said, very quietly.

            John gave him a half smile. “It’s _all_ fine,” he said reassuringly.

            Sherlock finally looked up at him, searching John’s eyes. His own mercury eyes glittered behind mascara. 

            “Now, if I catch a cab, I might just make it in time for my second appointment,” John said, glancing at his watch. “I’ll be back in a few hours. We’ll talk soon, all right?”

            “Yes, John,” Sherlock said.

            John nodded, and left for work.

  

* * *

  

            When John returned in the evening, Sherlock was curled on the sofa wearing his favorite blue dressing gown. The younger man was conspicuously free of makeup. He stared blankly at the wall. John sat next to him, surreptitiously glancing at his flatmate’s hands. The manicure was gone. He cleared his throat.

            “Sherlock, about earlier-“ he started. Sherlock held up a hand, silencing him.

            “Don’t, John,” the detective said in a flat voice.

            John studied him for a moment. “Look, Sherlock, I just want to be perfectly clear about this,” he said. “Let me say something to you.”

            Sherlock remained silent. John took it as a cue to continue.

            He took a breath. “Look. I don’t care how you choose to dress,” he started, choosing his words carefully. “Like I said this morning. It’s all fine.”

            Sherlock nodded slowly, still staring straight ahead, not trusting himself to meet eyes with the kind man next to him. “You aren’t… upset with me, then?” he asked.

            John scrutinized him. “Of course not! Why should I be upset? You’re a grown man, you can do what you like,” he said, now looking at the carpet himself.

            Sherlock finally looked over at him. His flatmate, it seemed, was bursting with just as much nervous energy as he was. “You said she looked nice,” he started cautiously.

            John looked up, startled. “Um. Yes. _She_ … looked very nice,” he said, furrowing his brow. “She’s not… you have a different… she… does she have a name, then?” he asked, confused but obviously making an effort. 

            Sherlock thought for a moment. “No,” he said.

            “Ah.”

            There was a minute’s silence.

            “But you refer to… her, as someone different?” John asked cautiously.

            “Mm,” Sherlock said, noncommittally.

            Another minute, then, “I lied.”

            “What?” John asked.

            “I lied. She does have a name.”

            “Oh,” John said. “What is it?”

            Sherlock grimaced, cheeks blushing a vivid red. He mumbled something, and closed his eyes.

            “What was that?” John asked.

            “Mystique, John. Her name is… Mystique.” He cringed away the smallest bit, waiting for John to start laughing. He peeked an eye open when no laughter appeared to be forthcoming.

            John reclined on the sofa a bit. “Pretty name,” he commented. “Any particular reason you… she chose it?” he asked.

            Sherlock looked at him with something John could only describe as hope. “She doesn’t speak,” he answered after a moment’s thought. “She’s mute.”

            “Makes sense,” John said.

            Another silence descended between them. Eager to brush it off, Sherlock asked, quite suddenly-

            “Would you like to meet her?”


	2. Chapter 2

            John fidgeted uncomfortably in the chair. How was he supposed to act? What was he supposed to say?

            What does anyone say?

            Sherlock was still in the bathroom; he had been for the past seventeen minutes. John checked his watch once more.

            Why was he so nervous? He berated himself internally. He shouldn’t feel nervous over such a silly thing. Sherlock was his flatmate; Sherlock had an alter ego; Sherlock was comfortable acquainting John with his mysterious alter ego. Why shouldn’t John be comfortable as well?

            He sighed, playing with his sleeve for another minute or two.

           Did it truly take women this long to prepare themselves? John thought about it. They couldn't possibly have that much to do. The thing with the eyes… the thing with the hair… the thing with the perfume, and the lips, and the jewelry… 

            A light tapping sounded from the bathroom doorway. John looked up, confused for a moment – there was a woman tapping her knuckles on the doorframe to get his attention, he could swear it was a woman.

            Honest to god, it was a woman.

            John drew in a breath. “Mystique?” he asked quietly, feeling a more than a little silly.

            The woman smiled shyly, and looked down, nodding.

            _Right,_ John thought. _Mute, Sherlock said. He's… she’s not going to say anything._

            The woman before him was tall, made even taller by the low black heels that adorned her feet. She wore a low-cut turquoise jumper and a pair of rusty red jeans, under which, John was surprised to see, she actually had _curves._ For someone as skinny as Sherlock, he reasoned, this was quite an accomplishment. He’d have to ask him how he managed it sometime.

            The woman’s most prominent feature, however, was the waterfall of red hair that cascaded over her shoulders in soft waves. John cleared his throat, and told himself to stop staring.

            “It’s good to… to meet you,” he said softly, stumbling over his words. Mystique inclined her head with a soft smile. “You look lovely,” John blurted out before he could stop himself. He blushed.

            Thankfully, Mystique seemed to think it was sweet, and she giggled silently. She looked up, eyes meeting John’s.

            “Right. Well,” John said, scratching his arm. “Would you like to sit?” he asked, gesturing to the sofa. Mystique smiled and gave a small nod before crossing the room and sitting across from his chair.

            “I’ve… I’ve made tea,” John said. “Would you like some?”

            Another nod, clearly a ‘thank you.’

            John flushed, and nearly ran into the kitchen. He poured out the pot into two mugs before he realized that his hands were shaking slightly. He cursed inwardly. This was not part of the plan.

            His cross-dressing flatmate was not meant to be _attractive,_ he thought with a grimace. He sighed, shook his head, and took the mugs of tea back into the sitting room. He set the mugs on the coffee table.

            Mystique had found a pen and paper pad, much to John’s relief, and she was writing something on it. He nodded to himself, satisfied with this development – at least this way they could communicate.

            After a moment or two of scratching on the pad, Mystique handed the paper back to John. He read it, then blinked. He read it again.

            _Sherlock’s told me a lot about you,_ the paper said.

            He ran a hand through the back of his hair. “Um. That’s… good? Is that good?” he asked, with a feeble laugh to cover his unease.

            Mystique pulled the corner of her mouth up into a wry grin. She took the pen and pad back and once more began to write.

            _He and I are different,_ it read. _You must understand that._

            She passed it back to John, who read it and nodded. “I can see that,” he murmured, a bit to himself.

            _I’d like to get to know you, John,_ the next note said, after another moment or two. _Would you like that as well?_

            John met Sherlock’s – no, Mystique’s – eyes, and with a shy smile of his own, nodded his assent. “Yes, I… I think I’d like that very much, Mystique.”


	3. Chapter 3

     Time passed.

     It had been three days since John had become acquainted with Mystique, and much to his disappointment, she had not made a reappearance. It had been Sherlock, solid, male Sherlock, who had cohabited the flat with him, running around solving mysteries and proclaiming never-ending boredom. He tried not to think too heavily on it. Why should he be disappointed, after all?

     John Watson was  _not_ attracted to his flatmate-in-drag.

     Just… no.

     He mulled it over again and again, in the shower, in the tube, in the office, whenever he had a few spare minutes to stop and think. He wasn't attracted to Sherlock - was he? And if he wasn't, then why _was_ he attracted to Mystique?

     How wrong would it be to start a romantic relationship with Mystique? After all, she had said that she was interested in getting to know him.

     John lost himself in a daydream, one day while making tea, where he had come home to Mystique lying in nought but a slip on the sofa of 221B. She had smiled seductively at him, and patted the couch. He had sat by her, and proceeded to snog the living daylights out of her. It was just getting interesting when John made the mistake of knotting his hand into Mystique's hair, displacing her wig. The fantasy had lurched forward, and there before him had lain a half-nude Sherlock Holmes in a slip, sans wig, lust and fear combined in his silvery eyes.

     John Watson made sure that his fantasies did not stray in that direction again.

     Still, he thought, as he got off the train and began the short walk back to the flat, she really wasn't bad looking…

     Once inside 221B, John began his afternoon ritual. Kettle, water, stove on, wait. Stove off, kettle, pour, bag in. Wait. Bag out.

     Sip.

     Savor.

     He gave a small sigh, the tension of the day being released, the warmth of the tea relaxing him.

     The flat was quiet, he realized, after a moment. John frowned. The flat shouldn't be quiet.

     "Sherlock?" he called. "Are you home?"

     No answer appeared to be forthcoming. Sherlock was probably out on a case, he reasoned. Still, the thought made him uneasy. What was that feeling in his gut? Surely it wasn't jealousy.

     Why would Sherlock be on a case without him?

     John shrugged it off as best he could, and continued to sip at his tea. 

     When he brought the mug down from his face, a woman had appeared at the door of the kitchen. John dropped the mug, startled.

     "Jesus Christ," John exclaimed. "I'm sorry, I didn't hear you come in…"

     The woman raised an eyebrow, but remained otherwise unfazed at the sound of the resounding crash of ceramic hitting tile.

     "Hm, Sherlock is out right now, you're probably looking for him. He'll be back soon enough, I imagine, if you'd like to make yourself at home-" John started, bending over to pick up the largest bits of the broken mug. He was stopped, though, by the feeling of a hand pressed to his shoulder.

     He looked up, finally seeing the woman for who she was.

     "Oh…" he breathed. "It's… it's you."

     Mystique smiled bemusedly.

     John rubbed at the back of his neck. "Well, I'll just get this cleaned up," he said awkwardly, the warmth of Mystique's hand still burning into his shoulder.

     Mystique nodded –  _take your time,_  she seemed to say, and meandered out of the kitchen, hips swaying slightly.

     John let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. He closed his eyes for a few moments, then steeled himself and knelt down to clean up the mess he had made.

     He most certainly did  _not_ think about how it would feel to run his hands along those hips.

     By the time he finished and returned to the living room, Mystique had gone. Sitting on the couch instead was Sherlock, bony and lanky and in a bathrobe, his eyes instantly locked on John.

     John regarded his flatmate for a moment.

     "Why did you change?" he asked.

     Sherlock's brow furrowed.

     "Excuse me?"

     "Why did you change?"

     "I've been wearing this robe all day, John," Sherlock said in consternation.

     "But you… she… you…" John puttered for a moment, before grinding to a halt.

     Sherlock tilted his head, but said nothing.

     John made a noncommittal noise, waved his hand in dismissal, and trudged off to his room upstairs without another word.

     Behind him and unseen, Sherlock let out a deep sigh and closed his eyes tightly.

* * *

     In the end, John decided to call Mycroft.

     If anyone knew about Sherlock's cross-dressing, it would be his nosy brother, he reasoned.

     Mycroft answered on the first ring.

     "Ah, Doctor Watson! To what do I owe this pleasure?" the elder Holmes asked cordially.

     "Hello, Mycroft. I was wondering… how much you knew about Sherlock's… erm, habits," he said, choosing his words with care.

     "I would imagine that I know quite a bit," Mycroft said. "How much I am willing to tell you depends on which habit he's deigned to display."

     "Fair enough," John said. "He's been… cross-dressing."

     There was a long pause. Mycroft sighed, breath crackling over the phone line.

     "John, it's not entirely my place to tell you this," he said.

     "Why not? I already know about it. I mean," he said, "Sherlock… showed me."

     "Did he, now?"

     "He did. I need to know why he does it," John said. "What goes through his head?"

     Mycroft collected his thoughts for a moment.

     "Mystique is the result of a very confused childhood," he said after a moment or two.

     "Confused?" John asked.

     "It probably will not come as a surprise to you that Sherlock did not have many friends growing up," Mycroft said. "When he was fourteen years old, he decided to create a friend of his own. This friend was designed to be his equal on every level," Mycroft explained.

     John nodded slowly, listening. 

     "By the very nature of Mystique's being, she and Sherlock could not exist together at any one time. Therefore, the only way they could communicate was by writing notes to each other. Every few hours, Sherlock would change personas, read what had been written, and respond in kind. This went on for years. It was, as I gathered, a way for him to work out inner problems by viewing them from a different perspective. Mystique acted as his conscience, if you will. A referee for a mind locked in stalemate with itself. He stopped dressing as Mystique years ago, however. I can only imagine that if she has resurfaced, Sherlock is having some kind of internal crisis that he feels the need to resolve."

     Here Mycroft paused, gathering and sorting his thoughts.

     "You will not, of course, be revealing to him any part of this conversation," he said to John.

     John made the sort of noise that implied that telling Sherlock was exactly what he would be doing. Mycroft scoffed into the other line, but fortunately said nothing.

     "Be careful. And… be good to him, John," Mycroft said, adding the last as an afterthought. 

     Before John could respond, Mycroft hung up.


	4. Chapter 4

            Mystique chewed the end of her pen thoughtfully, staring at the white square. She needed to word this perfectly.

            Dearest Sherlock musn’t get the wrong idea.

            She reread the note he had left her this morning. It intrigued her. Sherlock wasn’t one to display affection for another human being.

            So why was he coming to her for relationship advice?

            She lay sprawled across Sherlock’s bed, the sheets a mess around her. It was evening, and the last of the sunset swirled in through the milky window panes. It was a shame that Sherlock wasn’t around, really. It was the most romantic time of day, in Mystique’s opinion.

            She smirked, and scratched a few more words onto the piece of paper, which she proceeded to tear out of her notebook to fold into a paper crane. She scooted off the bed, and placed the crane delicately onto Sherlock’s shelf. With a small, satisfied smile, she turned to head back into the bathroom to complete the ritual.

            She stopped short when she saw John’s silhouette in the door, framed by the evening sun. Romantic, indeed. She smirked.

            “What’s this ‘crisis,’ then?” he asked bluntly.

            She furrowed her eyebrows in a gesture of confusion.

            “Oh, come off it,” John said. “I called Mycroft.”

            Mystique nodded slowly. She shrugged, and moved languidly back to the bed, where she had left her paper pad. She took up a pen, and quickly scribbled something onto the pad, which she passed to John. He read quickly.

            _What do you mean by crisis?_

            John gave her a look.

            “Look, Sherlock, Mycroft told me that Mystique was something you used as a means to solve personal crises, or some lark. If this is you asking for attention, you’ve got it. Here is me, asking what’s wrong.”

            Mystique gave him a pitying look. She took the pad back, and wrote once more.

            _I’ve told you before, John. Sherlock and I are different people. You could ask him what the matter is when he gets back, however. It couldn’t hurt._

            John read, then sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

            “Fine,” he said after a moment.

            Mystique looked at him with compassion. She sat on the bed, and motioned for him to sit beside her. John made an exasperated sort of face, but complied.

            She wrote upon the pad again.

            _I can’t tell you what’s gotten Sherlock upset. That’s between us, for he and I to solve. However, I can tell you that he is certainly more than a little out of touch with handling his own emotions._

            She handed it to John, who suppressed a chuckle. Mystique grinned.

            She took back the pad hastily, as another thought struck her.

            _You do well taking care of him. He’s not an easy person to live with._

            John did not suppress his laughter this time.

            “You can say that twice and mean it,” he said with a wry grin. The smile faded quickly, though, as the nagging thought returned. “Mystique, you and he are the same person,” he said after a moment.

            She frowned. _We aren’t._

            John read her comment and sighed.

            “You are. Something is troubling that brilliant mind, and I want to help. But you can’t keep pulling this double act.”

            Mystique crossed her legs in a huff. Her only written response was a bold underlining of the word ‘ _aren’t.’_

            John nodded slowly.

            “Whatever you say, Mystique,” he said after a moment, realizing that the odds of winning an argument with Sherlock Holmes, even a Sherlock who adamantly refused to accept that he was in fact Sherlock, were slim to none.

            Mystique put her nose in the air in an affronted sort of way.

            She took the pad up one last time.

            _If you will excuse me, I do believe I’ve overstayed my welcome._ She barely finished writing before she threw the pad down on the bed beside John.

            John watched silently as Mystique slammed the bedroom door behind her, effectively shutting John into Sherlock’s room.

            “Now, I know Sherlock,” John muttered to himself. “And _hissy fits_ are incredibly Sherlock.” He shook his head.

            He sat on the bed a few more moments, contemplating his next course of action, when a thought struck him. He had seen Mystique place the paper crane onto the shelf earlier. Mycroft had said that Mystique and Sherlock communicated through notes. John gave a grunt as he got up, walked to the shelf, and picked up the paper crane. He held it delicately, as if it were the most fragile thing in the world.

            After a minute or two, he opened it.

 

            _Sherlock_  [it said],

            _I didn’t realize you were such a sentimentalist. Feelings for another person? Tut. You know what your brother would say about this._

_If you want to pursue a relationship, I don’t see anything stopping you. Ask him out. See how he responds. Take him for drinks, if you’re nervous. You always said that was how he starts with his girlfriends._

_I’d advise you to ask soon, though, before he runs off with another girl._

_Be careful, Sherlock. It tugs at my heart to see you hurt._

_Best of luck,_

_Mystique xo_

            John puzzled over the note. It answered questions– some he hadn’t even been asking.

            Sherlock really was gay, then. Or at least… he wasn’t straight. John shook his head; he had figured as much.

            The thing that really struck him about the note was the continual mention of this other person’s “girlfriends.”

            Poor Sherlock. He must have it bad for this person, if he was admitting to needing help. John ran a hand through his hair. He wondered who this man could be. He ran his eyes over the note one more time before hearing the tiny creak of the door. Sherlock stood there, in bare feet, expression unreadable.

            “So who is it?” John asked. Sherlock gave him a withering look.

            “Who is who, John? You can’t just expect me to answer questions without some sort of context.”

            John returned the look.

            “Who is it that you’ve got your eye on, mate?” he asked.

            Sherlock scrutinized him. “I’m sure I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

            John held up the note in response. Sherlock’s eyes widened.

            “Where did you find that?” he asked icily.

            “On your shelf,” John replied, unperturbed.

            “Give me that!” the consulting detective grumped, snatching the paper away from John in one fluid movement. His eyes scanned the note frantically, and he sighed in relief when he found no traces of an implicating name.

            “You shouldn’t go through other’s things, John,” he said.

            John glowered.

            “Oh, come on! You practically invited me!”

            “I did nothing of the kind.”

            “Oh, so dressing up as a lady and leaving a note in plain sight isn’t an invitation? If you didn’t want me to read it, you would have taken it with you. It’s not at all like you to just leave it there, Sherlock.”

            “That’s because it _wasn’t me,_ ” Sherlock said through gritted teeth. He was visibly agitated.

            John took a breath.

            “Look, Sherlock, I want to be able to help you. I just can’t if you’re going to act like this.”

            Sherlock huffed. “Like what?”

            “Like… like this,” John said lamely, waving a hand in Sherlock’s general direction.

            “Not an adequate description, John.”

            John sighed.

            “Look, just… just ask out whoever it is you’re interested in. Get this all sorted. I’ll do my best to help. But please… come be human again, all right? You can dress however you like. But please don’t be two people. I’m not sure I can take it,” he said, honestly and openly.

            Sherlock eyed John for a moment.

            “You really think… ‘asking him out,’” he said the words in distaste, “is the wisest course of action?”

            John met his eyes. “Yes, Sherlock, I do.”

            Sherlock took a breath.

            “Very well. John, would you… ‘go out’… with me?”


	5. Chapter 5

            The silence hung pregnant in the air. Sherlock watched John, taking in his every reaction.

            John, for his part, stood with his mouth flapping like a fish.

            It was a full minute before he finally managed to choke out a strangled, “What?”

            “Don’t make me repeat myself,” Sherlock said, voice barely above a whisper. John shook his head slowly.

            “So this was it? This whole time? This was your crisis?”

            Sherlock gave John an uncomfortable look, but nodded.

            “Sherlock…” John started slowly.

            “Yes?”

            “Sherlock ‘married-to-my-work’ Holmes, you just asked me on a date?”

            “…yes,” Sherlock said, unsure of himself for what was perhaps the first time since he was a child. John sighed.

            “You know I’m straight,” he said quietly.

            Sherlock closed his eyes tightly.

            “I know, John.”

            “Look, it’s not that I don’t appreciate the compliment, it’s just that I don’t… I don’t reciprocate your feelings. You’re my friend, Sherlock,” he said, trying to explain as gently as he could.

            Sherlock nodded without opening his eyes.

            “Sherlock…” John said, seeing his flatmate’s distress.

            The detective drew in a shuddering breath.

            “It’s fine, John,” he said softly, willing his voice not to crack. John frowned. He put a gentle hand on Sherlock’s arm.

            “You don’t look fine.”

            Sherlock opened his eyes a fraction.

            “I said that it’s fine. This was the expected outcome,” he said clinically.

            “Sherlock-“

            “John.” The detective met John’s eyes for a moment before looking away once more. “If you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to elsewhere.”

            John looked as if he wanted to argue, but released Sherlock’s arm. The younger man practically ran out of the room.

            Minutes later, John heard the front door slam.

 

* * *

 

 

            Sherlock did not come back to the flat that night, or the next morning. It was noon the next day when John started to really worry.

            At 1:00, he put on shoes and a jacket, intending to go find his wayward flatmate, apologize, and make amends as best he could.

            His first course of action was to phone Mycroft.

            It terrified him that the elder Holmes did not answer his phone.

            Still, it was his responsibility to put this right. He resolved to find Sherlock, with or without Mycroft’s help. It struck him, as he walked out of the flat, that Sherlock was most likely sheltering at Mycroft’s estate. John cursed aloud, drawing the attention of the neighbors, who looked at him scornfully. He waved at them apologetically, and took his cell phone back out of his pocket. He dialed Mycroft once more. The elder Holmes once again did not pick up – John was now sure that the brothers were conspiring against him – but he left a voicemail anyhow.

            “Listen, Mycroft, I’m sorry. I know Sherlock’s probably told you what’s happened, and I do feel bad that I’m not able to give him what he needs. But you’ve got to believe me when I say I’m worried about him. I’m still his friend. Please, let me talk to him, Mycroft.”

            John hung up and replaced the phone in his pocket with a sigh. He started to walk once more, trying to decide on a place to go, when a voice addressed him from behind.

            “All is never lost, Doctor Watson.” Mycroft Holmes emerged from the shadows, dressed, as always, in an impeccable suit, brolly in hand.

            John spun quickly in surprise, his expression quickly turning to relief.

            “Thank God,” he said softly. “I was starting to worry that the wrath of the British Government was upon me.”

            “Don’t jump to conclusions too quickly, John.”

            “Oh.”

            “What you said to my brother cut him deeply.”

            John grimaced.

            “I… I know.”

            “John. You must know by now that you are the first.”

            “The first?” John asked, in obvious confusion. “What do you mean, the first? The first what?”

            Mycroft gave John a look.

            “Do keep up, doctor. You are the first person to which Sherlock has ever felt romantic attraction.” He looked the army doctor up and down before adding, “Though for the life of me, I could not say why.”

            John bristled, but said nothing.

            “Sherlock has never shown any interest in any sort of relationship before, John. He has had every opportunity to explore the possibility with others, but he has put his work before anything else – quite wisely, too, in my opinion.”

            John raised an eyebrow. It wasn’t like Mycroft to commend any decision of Sherlock’s. This must be serious.

            “He needs you, John.”

            John sighed.

            “What do you want me to do about it?”

            “I want you to consider it.”

            “I’m not gay, Mycroft. Why does all of England seem to think I’m gay?”

            Mycroft’s lips turned up in a wry grin.

            “Being gay is not a requirement.”

            “You’re asking me to shag your brother.”

            “I’ve asked nothing of the sort,” Mycroft said, unperturbed. “What I am saying to you now, however, is that Sherlock has a rather troubling history of dealing with disappointment. If you were to leave him… the consequences could be extreme.”

            John pinched the bridge of his nose.

            “That’s blackmail,” he pointed out.

            Mycroft shrugged.

            “There is, of course, another, more comfortable way of approaching this,” he said reasonably.

            “Oh yeah? And what’s that, hm?” John asked, annoyed.

            “You find Mystique to be physically attractive,” Mycroft said, in the same manner that someone might say ‘the sky is blue.’

            John turned a rather worrying shade of crimson.

            “So?” he managed.

            “Stipulate to Sherlock that, while you do not find it in you to date a man, you might be interested in beginning a relationship of sorts with Mystique.”

            John hung his head. He thought for a moment.

            “Fine,” he said. “ _But,_ I refuse to shag your brother, Mycroft Holmes.”

            Mycroft’s eyes glinted mischievously.

            “You will before this is over,” he said, swinging his brolly delicately over his shoulder. “I wish you the best of luck. Have a lovely afternoon, Doctor Watson.”

            With a tut and a whistle, the elder Holmes brother made his way down the street in considerably good spirits.

            John shook his head.

            He took a breath, and steeled himself.

            He pulled out his phone.

            He typed.

            _We need to talk. JW_

            In all of fifteen seconds, he had a response.

            _Be there in 5. SH_


	6. Chapter 6

            John looked up from where he was standing, curled in on himself, in the doorway of 221B Baker Street. He checked his watch, and shook his head. Five minutes to the second, and there was Sherlock, Belstaff and all, stepping out of a cab.

            The two men regarded each other for a long moment in the midafternoon light.

            “John,” Sherlock said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. His voice was terrifyingly neutral.

            “Sherlock. Where were you last night?”

            “I’m sure you’ve already deduced the location of my bolt hole, if Mycroft hasn’t told you already.”

            John took a breath.

            “Suppose it doesn’t matter. You’re back now, and that’s what counts. Tea?” He gestured toward the door.

            Sherlock said nothing. He didn’t argue, though, and John took it as a cue to continue. He held the door open for Sherlock, who moved up the stairs with what John would call trepidation, if he didn’t know better.

            John followed him into their living space. He made tea, and handed Sherlock a mug. He had decided that this conversation would be conducted in the manner of true Englishmen. If a good tea and a couple of digestives couldn’t solve a problem, then the problem was obviously too great to be solved.

            Sherlock curled his pale hands around the mug, as if trying to ward off a chill.

            “Sherlock,” John started, sitting in his armchair, across from where his flatmate was perched. “Look. About last night-“

            “John, please,” Sherlock cut him off. “A couple of days are all I need. Give me time to heal, and I can delete it.”

            The doctor blinked. 

            “Sherlock, you can’t treat yourself like this. You aren’t a bloody hard drive, all right? I know I’ve called you a machine before, but you just aren’t.”

            Sherlock took in a shuddering breath.

            “I overstepped my boundaries, and I will do what needs to be done to make amends.”

            “No, you didn’t. And you won’t,” John said, with an air of finality.

            “John, please.” Sherlock’s eyes glistened.

            “Look. I didn’t ask you to come home just to have an argument with you.”

            “Then why?”

            John looked at his flatmate, really looked at him. He looked haggard. His eyes were swollen, and he seemed, if it were even possible, paler than usual. Mycroft had been right. Sherlock was broken, badly. John suspected he had been for a long time. A lifetime spent living quietly, at the edges, where no one could deny him the love he never asked for. John’s rejection had merely been the straw that had broken the camel’s back, it seemed.

            His eyes bored into John’s imploringly.

            “Why, John?” he repeated, and the undertones shone through. Why was he unlovable? 

            John looked away. He took in a shaky breath.

            “Sherlock, I know what I said hurt you. And I am sorry. I am so, so sorry.”

            Sherlock burrowed deeper into his armchair.

            “But, you have to know that I stand by what I said. I’m not gay, and I’m fairly certain that isn’t going to change anytime soon.”           

            “You made yourself more than clear yesterday,” the younger man replied callously. “Repetition is unnecessary.”

            “I’m just making sure you know where I stand. Because-“ he held up a finger, seeing Sherlock readying himself for another icy reply. “Because I want to make you a deal. A compromise, if you will.”

            Sherlock’s brow furrowed.

            “What sort of compromise?”

            John looked at him with compassion.

            “I can’t date you, Sherlock.”

            The detective flinched.

            “But I would date a woman.”

            “Yes, I gathered as much,” the younger man said with no small amount of contempt.

            John shook his head.

            “You’re listening but not understanding.”

            “No, I think I understand perfectly.”

            Sherlock stood, walking toward the door. He opened it swiftly, ready to storm out once more. He paused, however, upon hearing John’s next words.

            “I will go on a date with you, if you dress as Mystique.”

            Sherlock’s shoulders drooped. He braced himself against the doorframe.

            “What difference does it make how I dress?” he asked, voice barely over a whisper. “You've said yourself that we are the same person. What does it matter?”

            John grimaced.

            “I’m sorry. Would you at least consider it?”

            Seconds passed. Sherlock sniffed and nodded, still not facing John. The muscles in his neck clenched, just for a moment.

            The doctor stood and walked to the door, placing a gentle hand on his best friend’s shoulder.

            “Dinner at eight, then?”

            Another nod.

            “Good.”

            John squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder, before turning him so they faced each other. Without another word, he pulled the consulting detective into his arms for a quick hug. He was surprisingly warm. 

            Pulling away, Sherlock wiped his nose on his sleeve, in what shouldn’t have been an endearing way. John’s lips quirked up into a smile.

            “Chinese or Italian?”


	7. Chapter 7

            Knuckles rapped gently at the bathroom door.

            “Sher… Mystique, are you ready?”

            Mystique’s lips quirked into a rueful smile at John’s near slip. Not Sherlock, indeed. She finished applying her lipstick, turned, took a breath, closed her eyes, and opened the door. When she opened her eyes once more, John was looking up at her, cheeks faintly flushed.

            “Okay, that is _so_ not fair,” he muttered.

            Mystique raised an eyebrow in question.

            “It shouldn’t be legal for attractive people to look even better in drag,” John clarified, shaking his head.

            Mystique suppressed a giggle.  _Practice makes perfect,_ she mouthed at him.

            “Really, I should get Mycroft to make a law about that,” John continued to muse. “I’m sure he would understand the necessity.”

            Mystique rolled her eyes.

            John cleared his throat a little anxiously.

            “Shall we, then?” he asked. “Cab’s outside.”

            Mystique nodded, and followed as he led the way out of the flat.

            The ride to the restaurant – Italian, they had decided; Chinese was something they could eat whenever they pleased – was uncomfortably quiet. As much as Mystique liked to think that she was able to rid herself completely of her other persona, Sherlock was still there, lurking in the back of her mind. She was dreadfully nervous.

            John noticed her unease, and, after a moment’s hesitation, covered her hand, which rested on the leather seat, with his own. He didn’t let go until they got to the restaurant, which Mystique was grateful for.

            The wait staff seemed a bit confused when John’s date was taller than he was. Still, they took it in stride – this _was_ London, after all – and once John had ordered for both of them, they were left to their own devices.

            Mystique, for all that she was bold and flirtatious, found it irritatingly difficult to make eye contact with John. She settled for studying her nails, which she had painted a rather shimmery blue.

            John watched this act for a moment before once again covering both of her hands with his.

            “You look lovely,” he said with a reassuring smile, "and you know it." Mystique blushed. “Why are you so nervous?”

            She looked up at him for a fraction of a second, lips parting slightly, before looking away once more.

            “Is this your first date?” John asked.

            Mystique frowned, and nodded.

            “Ever?”

            Another nod.

            “I thought as much. Look, Sh… Mystique, it’s all right to be nervous.” Mystique looked up sharply. That was John’s second slip in one night. Was her makeup not quite right? Did she look too much like her male counterpart? Her heart raced, taking John’s reassurance and trampling it into the ground.

            Mystique’s worry must have shone through, because John’s countenance quickly showed concern.

            “What’s the matter?” he asked, searching her eyes for an answer.

            She centered herself, and gave him a smile. She reached into her bag, bringing out a small pad of paper and pen she had brought from the flat.

            _I’m fine,_ she wrote quickly.

            “If you say so,” John replied incredulously.

            The waitress brought their food to them, and John’s concern melted away in the steam of his pasta dish. After a bite or two, he turned back to his date, who was picking away at a plate of eggplant parmesan.

            “So. What do you do, then, Mystique?” John asked politely.

            Mystique’s brow furrowed in confusion. Do? That seemed an odd question.

            John saw her hesitation and prompted further.

            “You know… bowling? Piano? Long walks on the beach?”

            Mystique thought for a minute before shaking her head.

            _I don’t have hobbies,_ she wrote simply.

            “Oh. Well… that’s… fair, I suppose…” John said, scratching the back of his neck. He hadn’t taken into consideration that Mystique’s entire existence up until this point had been solely devoted to solving Sherlock’s problems.

            Christ, but this was going to be difficult.

            He racked his brain for a safer topic.

            “Um… favorite food?” he asked, a little lamely.

            Mystique gave him a look.

            “Ah, right, Sherlock doesn’t really eat much either… not that it’s a bad thing, of course,” he added hurriedly at Mystique’s slightly wounded expression.

            John sighed and ate another bite or two of pasta.

            There was another uncomfortably long pause.

            “Look… Sherlock.”

            Mystique’s eyes widened in something akin to terror.

            “No, no, don’t… don’t look at me like that.”

            Mystique proceeded to look at him like that for a full thirty seconds before making a mad grab for the pad and pen. She began to scribble furiously.

            John pinched the bridge of his nose and waited for her to finish.

            _We aren’t the same John you have to realize we are not the same._

            “All right, all right… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called you-“ he began, but the words were scarcely out of his mouth before Mystique was scratching at the pad once more.

            _Is it the outfit? Do I look too much like him? I’m sorry, John, I didn’t thi_

            “Sherlock,” John said once more, quietly and firmly, placing his hand over Mystique’s to stop her manic writing. She drew in a shuddering breath and let the pen fall to the table. She closed her eyes tightly.

            “What did I tell you before? I can’t deal with you being two people.”

            Mystique grew impossibly still.

            “You don’t need to keep up the act with me, Sherlock,” John continued, as gently as he could. “There isn’t enough of Mystique by herself to date anyhow.”

            Mystique tried to make a grab for the pen and pad once more, but John’s grip was firm.

            “No, if you’re going to say something, I want you to just come out and say it, Sherlock.”

            Mystique took another couple of breaths, steeling herself.

            “Why, John?” Sherlock said as quietly as he could, his deep baritone voice entirely incongruous with the outfit he wore.

            And just like that, the spell was broken. It was no longer Mystique who sat before John, shrouded in mystery and confidence, but Sherlock Holmes, who was terrified, in a dress, and more than a little shattered.

            John gave him a sad little smile.

            “If I’m going to date someone, it’s going to be an actual person. Not just some fictional character.”

            Sherlock nodded slowly, the red hair of the wig drooping mournfully across his forehead.

            “What did you mean, there isn’t enough of her to date?” he asked softly.

            John looked at him compassionately.

            “She’s like a toy in a chest, Sherlock. You can take her out whenever you’d like to dress her up and talk to her, but she always goes back into the box when you’re through. She hasn’t had a life of her own. She hasn’t got memories, or stories.”

            Sherlock looked as though his heart had just been stomped on.

            “But you said… you said you would only date her. Not me…”

            “Sherlock, I said that I would date you if you _dressed_ like her. I didn’t say you had to _be_ her.”

            Oh. _Oh._

            Sherlock’s thought process ground to a halt, before slowly restarting itself.

            “So… you…”

            “Truly want to give this a go? Yes,” John said simply, spreading his hands on the table before him. “Sherlock, the only thing holding me back from truly becoming emotionally involved with you is the anatomy.”

            Something reignited itself in Sherlock’s eyes.

            “So… as long as I look like a woman… you’ll be satisfied?”

            “I wasn’t lying when I said you looked nice,” he said.

            “Oh, John.”

            Sherlock looked down at the table, overcome with emotion. His mouth slowly drew itself into a smile.

            John watched his flatmate come to a hundred different conclusions at once. He grinned, and moved his hand across the table to stroke Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock met John’s gaze and held it. Neither of them knew how long they sat there, lost in each other’s eyes, but eventually the waitress offered them the bill with a discreet cough.

            “Home, then?” John asked, once they had paid.

            “Home sounds brilliant. John?”

            “Yes, Sherlock?”

            The detective sucked in a breath. “Does this mean you are my boyfriend?”

            John beamed.

            “Yes, if you’d like,” he said.

            “I would. Very much,” Sherlock said with a gleam in his eyes. The fabric of the dress swirled about his knees as the pair of them exited the restaurant, hand in hand. They walked in amiable silence for a few minutes, before Sherlock spoke once more.

            “John?”

            “Yes?”

            “I’ll schedule the sex change.”

            “Sex ch- Sherlock! No!”


	8. Chapter 8

            Over the next few days, Sherlock's gears became stuck somewhere in between 'female' and 'not.' It was obvious that he was unaccustomed to speaking while dressed as a woman, but he tried his best to please John. He made sure to greet him every time he entered a room.

            “Good morning, John.”

            “How are you, John?”

            “How do you like this colour on me, John?”

            “What would you like to do today, John?”

            The questions were all quite innocuous, and yet John found that they grated on him. His Sherlock was brash, and callous, and didn’t care for others’ opinions.

            _This_ Sherlock, this _She-lock,_ was too… nice. Still, he let him continue, for the sake of the younger man’s comfort.

            Though comfort was a relative term, to John’s observation. John learned exactly eighteen hours after their initial date that Sherlock had absolutely no problem with working cases in heels, fishnets, and shorts. The Belstaff was discarded in favour of a tank top and jean jacket.

            For some reason, female-Sherlock found it highly amusing to wear a deerstalker on cases.

            This ensemble had raised more than a few eyebrows at Scotland Yard. Fortunately, thanks to John’s quick thinking (and a few well-timed text messages), the force were ordered upon penalty of suspension not to utter a word. Truly, even Lestrade was stunned, and he had known Sherlock for years.

            Sherlock had decided to try a more minimalist approach with his makeup when he was on cases, so he was instantly recognizable, even with the fiery red wig. He had pranced right up to Lestrade at the scene of what had later turned out to be a suicide and given him a cheeky smile. Lestrade, who had been savoring a mug of strong black coffee, had found hot liquid spewing from his lips moments later.

            Sherlock merely smirked at this response, and proceeded to play a game of casework-in-a-hundred-words-or-less.

            He winked at Lestrade when he had finished not ten minutes later, rushing out in a whirlwind of loose hair and clothing.

            John had been mortified.

            “Is this some new phase?” Lestrade had asked John, once Sherlock was out of earshot.

            “God, I hope not,” John had responded, more or less truthfully, though Sherlock’s bum _had_ looked rather enticing in those shorts.

            That had been Saturday.

 

* * *

 

 

            It was now Tuesday, and _She-lock_ was showing no signs of reverting back to his old self.

            He was, to the contrary, sitting in John’s armchair, filing his nails.

            John had just woken, and had not initially noticed the fact that his new partner was occupying his portion of the living room. He walked past him into the kitchen, and completed his morning tea ritual. When he emerged into the living room with a steaming mug, Sherlock was still happily curled up in his chair.

            “Good morning,” the not-quite-a-woman said cheerily.

            John groaned inwardly.

            “What are you doing?”

            “What do you mean?”

            “You are in my chair.”

            “Yes,” Sherlock said with a smile.

            “Why are you in my chair?”

            “It smells like you,” he replied simply.

            “Sherlock…” John started in frustration.

            Sherlock, seeing John’s agitation, immediately leapt out of the chair.

            “I’m sorry, was it not okay for me to sit here? I had thought couples were supposed to share things; I-“

            “Hush!”

            Sherlock ground to a halt.

            John walked around Sherlock and sat in his chair. He took a long draught of his tea. He closed his eyes.

            Sherlock fidgeted.

            “John?” he asked quietly. “Have I done something wrong?”

            John was quiet for a long moment.

            “No, Sherlock. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

            “Why are you upset?”

            “For God’s sake, why can’t you just _deduce_ why I’m upset?”

            Sherlock flinched at John’s angry tone. He did not answer.

            John sighed.

            “Sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that.”

            “Why did you?”

            “Because… just because.” John's eyebrows slanted inward.

            Sherlock looked on in confusion.

            “Please don’t make that face,” John said after a beat.

            “Like what? John?” Sherlock asked, sounding helpless. "What's wrong with my face?"

            John pinched the bridge of his nose.

            “You look like you have no idea what’s going on, Sherlock,” he said, a tad forcefully. “Come on. You’re the most brilliant person I know. What happened?”

            “What-“

            “Don’t you dare ask what I mean. You can figure it out.”

            Sherlock folded his arms over his chest.

            “All right,” he said uncomfortably. “You’re upset… about something I’ve done.”

            “Hit it over the head so far,” John agreed.

            “Because I sat in your chair.”

            John shook his head.

            “Sherlock, the chair isn’t the issue.”

            “Then what is? Do you not…” he swallowed. “Do you not like me anymore?”

            “Not like this,” John said honestly.

            Sherlock’s mouth went dry. He turned away.       

            “I’m sorry, John,” he croaked.

            John set down his mug and stood.

            “You haven’t been acting yourself, Sherlock, and that’s why I’m upset. I don’t like that you’re pretending to be something you’re not.”

            Sherlock’s shoulders tensed.

            “Then why did you ask me to dress like this?” he asked, willing his voice not to crack.

            John’s hands clenched tightly.

            “Because I didn’t expect it to affect your personality this much,” he said, exasperated. “Because you’re supposed to be… y’know… you. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Not some… some confused transvestite teenager.”

            Sherlock bowed his head, wig flowing over his neck and shoulders. He closed his eyes.

            “Mystique is an extension of my personality,” he said in as noncommittal a voice as he could muster.

            John made a frustrated sound.

            “I _know_ , I know, it’s just… I need you to be _you_.”

            “What does that mean, John?”

            John took in a breath through his nose.

            “It means that you’re trying to impress me and I hate it. It means,” he said, pressing on before Sherlock could interrupt him, “that you, Sherlock Holmes, are a genius. You are not some ditzy redheaded prom queen who can’t answer a question without asking another question.”

            John took a step forward and wrapped his hands around Sherlock’s biceps.

            “You need to stop trying to become someone you _think_ I will fall in love with. William Sherlock Scott Holmes, you were someone I could fall in love with before you ever even touched a dress.”

            Sherlock shivered, gooseflesh prickling his neck at John’s heated words. His Adam’s apple bobbed once or twice, the masculinity of the movement complementing the low cut of the shirt he wore.

            “Now go… make toast, or something. I’m going to finish my tea,” John finished, waving a hand as the blood rose to his cheeks at the sudden realization of what had just been said.

            “Ye… yes, John,” Sherlock said uncertainly, but without any traces of confusion.

            John sat heavily back in his chair as Sherlock made his way into the kitchen, hips swaying perhaps slightly less than they had yesterday.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

            It was some time later when a light tapping roused John. He rubbed at his eyes; he hadn’t even been aware of dozing off. He looked around the sitting room blearily, and saw Sherlock’s lanky form silhouetted in the door to the kitchen.

            Sherlock’s knuckles continued to rap gently against the kitchen doorframe in a parody of his first meeting with John as Mystique. A halfhearted smile graced his face.

            “Sh’lock?” John asked. “How long was I asleep?”

            “Not long. Half hour, at most,” the detective said clinically. He took four steps into the sitting room, and sat on his own chair in a tangle of limbs.

            John stared. Something was… off.

            “What?” Sherlock asked, after perhaps half a minute of John’s scrutiny.

            John’s eyes widened slightly.

            “Your wig,” he said, coming to the conclusion rather suddenly. “You took your wig off.”

            Sherlock said nothing, but tilted his head slightly in affirmation. The rest of the outfit was still in place – tank top, shorts, tights. The works.

            “You’ve been wearing it for days,” John continued. “Why did you take it off?”

            “It made my scalp itch,” Sherlock replied nonchalantly. His eyes betrayed him, however. They watched John like a hawk.

            John met his gaze for a few seconds, then shook his head.

            “Finally coming to your senses, then?” he asked softly.

            “No senses to speak of. My sources inform me that I am a machine,” Sherlock responded, voice equally as soft.

            John fished for a comeback, and came up empty handed. He smiled ruefully.

            “Good to have you back,” he said.

            Sherlock inclined his head regally.

            They sat amicably for a few minutes, not saying a word, before a sudden thought struck the younger man.

            “You’ll still want me to dress as a woman?”

            “Only if you want me to kiss you.”

            Sherlock bit back a small smile.

            “And the sex change?”

            “If it’s going to make you act like you’ve been acting this past week? God, no.”

            “I am glad we agree on that point; I was not looking forward to the recovery process,” he said honestly.

            John laughed.

            He stood and moved over to Sherlock’s chair, and pulled his flatmate up to standing. Sherlock swallowed, but followed John’s lead and allowed himself to be pulled into a close embrace.

            “I do like you, you know,” John murmured into Sherlock’s ear.

            “It’s mutual,” Sherlock replied breathily.

            With a chuckle, John maneuvered himself until their foreheads were touching. He leaned his head in, and ever so slowly, brought their lips together in a gentle kiss. He reached up, tangling his fingers into Sherlock’s dark curls.

            This was how it was meant to be, he thought to himself, as he quenched himself on the lips of the consulting detective. This was perfection.

            Sherlock’s hands like fire on John’s skin.

            Sherlock’s hair like fire in John’s hands.


End file.
